Sunlight in a Jar
by Copycat
Summary: Sam gets a new perfume. Martin notices.


TITLE: Sunlight in a Jar

AUTHOR: Copycat (Lizzy)

E-MAIL: PG-13

CLASSIFICATION: Romance angst friendship

SPOILERS: Through 4x21 but nothing very specific

SUMMARY: Sam gets a new perfume. Martin notices.

DISCLAIMER: If they were mine the world would be a better place. For some of us anyway.

CONTENT DISCLAIMER: As a general rule, I hate those clichéd "Her hair smelled like strawberries and vanilla and he just lurved it." Mostly because all my hair ever smells like (provided it's clean and doesn't reek of other people's bad habits cigarette-wise) is shampoo. The soapy kind that smells like shampoo instead of some fruit or flower. It doesn't matter what shampoo I use, the end result is the same. I am skeptical about the possibility of anyone actually being able to tell if your shampoo happens to be "cherry blossom and jasmine" scented. So there's one particular sentence towards the end that will make me gag, but in the context of this whole thing--well, it just wouldn't go away when I told it to.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This story hasn't been beta'ed. I know it should've been, but I'm lazy. There are no other excuses. Any kind of comments will be very much appreciated, and I love ConCrit especially.

Okay, I'm done waffling now...

You notice immediately, as she walks past your desk to pass on a suspect's phone records to Elena. You forget about your notes from the interview with the victim's mother you just conducted -- the notes you are supposed to be making sense of right now, so that you will have something other than "this woman is a wreck," to tell Jack when he asks -- and watch her as she walks, with a definite spring to her step, over to Danny, who is bent over the conference table with surveillance pictures of the suspect, found in her own apartment, spread all over its surface.

He looks up when she approaches, and you see him sniffing the air and saying something to her, grinning. She has her back turned to you, so you cannot see her response, but you can tell from the wave of the folder she whacks him with that she is not angry. When she turns around she is still smiling, rolling her eyes at whatever he says to her as she walks away. You wonder how he knows, what happened to make her tell him.

You wonder what happened to make her change it again.

Her eyes meet yours and you turn away quickly; you do not want to see the answer to your question in them.

You remember the first time this happened. You had only been with the team for a few months and Danny had been making comments about your feelings for her. You hadn't said anything about it. You did not want anyone to know you noticed how your teammates smelled -- how she smelled -- and you did not know there was any significance to it, so you hadn't thought about it, beyond the fact that you liked this perfume better than the other one. Only, sometimes, it took all your energy not to lean in and sniff her when you were standing close together.

When you broke up with her it happened again. Overnight she went from vanilla to lavender, and it made you sad, but it was a relief, too, because you never liked the smell of lavender, and that made it a little easier.

Of course by then you knew what it meant.

You had asked her once, out of the blue, mostly to let her know you really liked the vanilla perfume and didn't want her to change it. You had been lying in her bed in the middle of the night, both of you still naked, talking, as you drew lazy circles on her belly.

You had felt her whole body tense, and you knew you had said something wrong. Something that would make her put on her panties and your t-shirt and go to sleep, curled up into a ball of distance that made it feel like there was a continent in the middle of her bed, separating you. You had opened your mouth to stutter an apology, for whatever it was you had done, but then she relaxed and when she got out of bed she was smiling. She put on your shirt but didn't bother to button it, which was a good sign, and when she tossed your boxers at you and reached for your hand, she was smiling.

You followed her to the bathroom, confused, and she opened the cabinet next to the sink and pointed to the row of perfume bottles on the bottom shelf. She sat down on the toilet seat hugging her knees and shook her head, smiling self-deprecatingly.

"What?" You asked, because really, it didn't make any sense. Did she want you to smell them and pick a favorite?

"There's one for every relationship since I was eighteen." She was watching you closely for your reaction, and you were convinced that there were so many ways for you to get this wrong and very few ways to get it right.

You reached out and touched the bottle of Electric Youth that was first in the line. You remembered how girls in school had been constantly arguing over which was better, Electric Youth or Verve, and tossing bottles through classrooms, spraying into the air and comparing them until the air was so thick with perfume they couldn't possibly tell them apart. You remembered you liked Verve the best.

"Why?"

She shrugged. "It's a way to move on."

"So every time you get out of a relationship you change your perfume?" You tried so hard not to sound like you thought she was crazy. You didn't, but that never meant she wouldn't take it that way.

"Yes."

"But--why?"

She was still smiling, sort of, and you wondered why she was letting you in like this suddenly. But then you realized, this was how it was. She would be closed off most of the time, but then every now and then she would toss some tidbit of personal history at you, and you had no choice but to be grateful for the trail of breadcrumbs she left, and follow. Because if you didn't, she would disappear.

"Because the perfumes are connected to the relationships." She paused, searching for the right words to explain. "Like, every time I smell that Electric Youth, I'm reminded that no one should get married at eighteen just to spite their mother."

"And you keep them in case you ever need to be reminded of that?"

She grinned. "Exactly."

You understood then, or you thought you did. "Which one's Jack?" The words left your mouth before you could stop them, and you wanted to slap yourself. Mentioning Jack was always a sure way to start an argument, or when she was feeling benevolent just end the good mood.

She had frowned, but finally pointed to a bottle almost at the end. Obsession. "Ironic, isn't it? I mean, the scent comes first, not the guy."

You picked it up and moved the small glass bottle in your hands for a while, then sniffed it. "I never really liked this one," you told her.

She smiled at that and took the bottle from you, her hand caressing yours as she did. She put it back on the shelf then looked up at you, clearly expecting you to say something.

You looked at the various lotions and assorted bottles on the shelf under the mirror and located the perfume bottle. "So this is mine?" You asked, picking it up.

She looked down at first, but then lifted her head and her eyes met yours with a conviction that you weren't used to. "Yes."

You looked at the bottle again. "It's nearly empty," you told her.

"I know." It was barely above a whisper.

You set it down and nodded thoughtfully. "I'll get you a new one," you said as you pulled her from her seat by both hands and kissed her. She had smiled into your lips and held on to you so tightly you knew whatever this had been, somehow you had gotten it right for once.

And now you know that the bottle of Vanille you bought her is no longer last in the line of scented reminders of past mistakes.

"What did Mrs. Lindbergh have to say?" A too-familiar voice brings you out of your reverie and back to the present.

"Huh?"

She frowns, clearly confused by the look on your face, and you worry that she might see the remnants of something there you do not want her to see. "Mrs. Lindbergh. Did she say anything interesting?"

You shrug and take a minute to shuffle around your notes as you drag your mind away from the new but oddly familiar scent of something that reminds you of happy summers spent by the ocean. "Only that her daughter was perfect in every way, and she can't possibly imagine how her little girl could be in trouble."

"So the crystal meth and overdrawn bank account aren't hers?" Sam says sarcastically.

"Obviously not." You half-smile, relieved that she doesn't seem to think you're acting strange.

"It always amazes me." She moves to sit down on the edge of your desk, sending another waft of something you don't want to know your way. "How can you know so little about someone you're supposedly so close to?"

You shrug. "Some people are just good at keeping things hidden, I guess."

She looks up sharply and you realize how pointed that sounded to her. You open your mouth to apologize, but change your mind and just bite down on your tongue awkwardly instead. It's not your business if she gets offended by trivial statements like that. Not anymore. It hasn't been for a long time, of course, but you are more keenly aware of it now than you have been for a while. Not that you offend her deliberately, but you are not bending over backwards to accommodate her mood swings as you did for most of the time you were together.

And apparently someone else no longer has a reason to, either.

You aren't hurt that she never told you she had met someone. You aren't even surprised. But you can't help but wonder who it was and why it ended. Was it someone you know, maybe another agent? A spiteful remark lurks in the back of your mind but you shove it away, because it has a flavor of something like bitterness.

She picks at something invisible on her impeccably white shirt. "Maybe they feel they need to." She is refusing to look at you, instead digging her nail into the sleeve of her shirt, scratching at whatever it is she sees there. "I mean, if I owed some drug dealer ten grand I wouldn't want mommy dearest to know about it either." She says it almost as an afterthought, and you know that's not what she meant at all.

"But maybe if she hadn't been so secretive about everything in her life, she wouldn't be missing now. She sure as hell would be a lot easier to find." You don't intend for there to be a subtext to your words, but it seems inevitable that Sam should read something into this not at all related to Tammy Lindbergh.

To your surprise she looks up and nods. "Maybe if we find her and she's okay, she'll have learned her lesson."

She gets up and leaves before you can say anything.

You don't want to read anything into what she says, and you don't think she really meant anything by it, but somewhere inside you that you thought had died, you feel a jolt that's not entirely pleasant.

You turn back to your notes and try to focus, searching for some clue in Mrs. Lindbergh's words that you missed the first time around. Hopefully it will distract you from thinking about Sam too much. You're angry with yourself--and her, just a little--for suddenly feeling this way again when you haven't for so long. The first weeks after you ended the relationship you spent constantly second guessing yourself about whether you did the right thing. There had been good times, after all, even if not so much lately, and you missed that, just as you missed _her_. But she hadn't pressed the matter, and that made you realize that you had done the right thing. You had been right all along that she didn't read as much into the relationship as you did. You saw a future together, she saw a convenient shag.

You snort in disgust, both at the harshness of this fact that you accepted even when you got into that cab with her, when Jack had supposedly left for Chicago, and because it is obvious that you're failing at keeping your focus on your work. Looking at your half empty mug of lukewarm coffee, your third so far today, you opt for a bit of fresh air on the balcony instead of another trip to the kitchen.

It's cold outside, and under the stench of pollution there is a distinct smell of rain on the way. You close your eyes for a moment and allow the light breeze to wash over you, trying to imagine that you are somewhere else entirely. Somewhere that people don't just up and disappear and have terrible things happen to them. Somewhere in a story book someone read to you (not your father) when you were a child, which you don't actually remember, but you remember the feeling you had that it must have been a wonderful place to be.

You bet in that world you would have been smarter than to let a woman break your heart. It isn't fair that she can do this to you now, when you have been fine for so long. Things between you aren't what they were _before_, but you have reached some sort of compromise, a friendship that holds no hint of what you used to be. There is nothing in the way she sometimes touches your arm, or brushes against you accidentally, that shows that she knows exactly what you feel like under your clothes; and you are just the same with her. It was a charade at first, of course, because every so often, when she would brush her hair away from her face, you would catch a glimpse of the nape of her neck, and remember how it tasted. You would remember how the taste was different after you had made love, and how she would squirm impatiently if you took too long to kiss her lips again.

But after a while the memories became less vivid and less frequent, and the pretending became real. For a long time now it hadn't even been something you thought about very often. So many things had happened between then and now that were much more important, really, in the grand scheme of your life, than just a failed relationship.

So why should it weigh so heavily on your mind, suddenly, to find out that there had been someone else in her life?

It didn't seem right that you had worked with her for months, gotten along with her and felt good about how things had turned out in the end, and then a thing as simple as her changing her perfume could set something off in your mind that brought back all these memories of how you used to feel.

You hear the door to the balcony open, and you know without even looking that it's her. When she comes to stand next to you, your arms almost touching but not quite, you go through the NBA ranking in your mind to force away the memory of the other times you have been out here together.

"Are you okay?" She asks as last, when she realizes you will do nothing to acknowledge her presence. There is genuine concern in her voice, and you know she has no idea what's on your mind. She wouldn't be asking if she did, because that would be owning up to a past you have both been ignoring for the longest time.

"Yeah, I'm just tired." It isn't a lie, exactly. You say it a little too sharply, though, because you just want her to leave you alone and stop making things this way.

She doesn't say anything, but you know she is looking at you, trying to decide if that is a good enough answer. You appreciate her concern and it occurs to you that maybe it isn't fair for you to blame her for how you're feeling right now when she is only trying to be nice. When in fact she has been nice to you for a long time.

You feel her shifting next to you as she leans on the railing, mimicking your stance. It's clear that she isn't going to just leave.

A few minutes pass until the silence and her closeness get on your nerves too much and you have to say something. You turn just a little so you can see her face. "I like your new perfume." You're proud of how there's no hint of resentment or anger in your voice. You might as well have been asking if she thought it would rain tonight.

She blushes slightly, but smiles. "Thanks." There's a pause. "Danny said the same thing."

"Mmmm." So what are you supposed to say to that, then? Do you ask her if _she's_ okay, or do you pretend you don't know what it means? Or do you just assume she's fine because she always pretends she is, so that must be what she wants you to think?

"He offered to come over and put up another shelf for me," she says conversationally and then explains with a slight grimace. "Because this one is full."

You are unable to suppress a grin, but marvel at what Danny can get away with saying to her without pissing her off.

"So I told him I threw them all out." Her eyes gleam triumphantly, and for the first time you turn around to look at her properly.

"Why?"

She looks determined but shrugs as if to make you believe that it really isn't that big a deal. "I just realized it wasn't working the way I meant it to."

"How's that?"

She turns away from you, looking out across the city as if she's searching for something in particular, or maybe just the right words to explain. "Well, it was a way to move on, wasn't it? Getting a new perfume. That's alright. But all those bottles. I didn't need to be reminded of all the things I've done wrong in the past, y'know? It's hard to move on when your mistakes are staring you right in the face. How are you going to move on when they're right there, all the time?" She shakes her head and looks down at the street below, although it always makes her feel dizzy. "So I just threw all the bottles away and got a new perfume that has nothing to do with making mistakes. A fresh start, that's only about _me_."

You're glad now that she isn't looking at you, because you have no idea what she would see on your face. There is no new mistake. No guy. You're not relieved exactly, but you do feel _something_. You suspect it's an ego thing more than anything else. She has been different lately, happier and more at ease with herself, and it bothered you now to find out that some other man had caused this change in her when you couldn't. "That makes sense," is all you can think to say.

"It does, doesn't it?" She's looking at you and smiling and you smile back warmly. "Also, now I don't have to stop using a perfume I really like just because... Well..."

You smile at her sudden discomfort. "I don't think you can buy Electric Youth anymore."

She laughs softly and punches you lightly on the arm. All the tension you felt earlier has gone, and you have settled back into the comfortable friendship-mode of the last months. "So what brought on this sudden insight?"

She settles back next to you, closer now so that you can feel the heat emanating from her where your arms are touching ever so slightly. "I don't know. Just life in general, I think. It's been a crazy year, with everything that's happened, and I guess I just realized some things weren't, well, the way I wanted them."

"Really? So what are you doing next? Ending world hunger?" You really don't want to say anything about the 'crazy year'.

She laughs in that giggly girlish way that always used to send shivers down your spine and make you feel there was something good in the world, despite all work-related evidence to the contrary. "No, I thought I'd start with something simple and fix things in the Middle East."

"Well, it's good that you aren't being overly ambitious."

She smiles at that, but then turns suddenly serious. "And you're okay? Really?"

You nod, and it's true, you do feel a lot better somehow. "Yeah, I am now. I was just having a bad day." You know she will think you're talking about your addiction and you let her, because it's easier.

"Good. I mean, not good that you're having a bad day." She says 'bad day' like it's really significant but something she doesn't understand. "But good that you're better."

She leans into you, resting her head on your shoulder and rubbing your arm. You turn your head so your face is almost in her hair. She smells like apples and the ocean and something you never let yourself realize how much you missed. "I'm glad we're friends, Sam," you say. It seems strange to tell her that, because it's not something you're ever particularly verbal about, but you want to make sure she knows.

She stiffens and you think she'll move away from you, but instead she squeezes your forearm lightly and relaxes against you once more. "Me, too."

You're confused by this blatant display of affection and you don't know how to respond. In the past she was always so careful about letting anyone see you touching, even in the most innocent way, and this is so far from everything you thought you knew about her that you just stand there stupidly, wishing you knew the right thing to do to reciprocate.

She seems to notice your hesitation because she tilts her head up to look at you. Your faces end up just an inch apart and you both pull back a little to put more distance between you. She's blushing slightly, but doesn't stop smiling.

"It's nice like this, isn't it." She doesn't say it like it's a question so you don't reply. You just smile back at her and wonder what it is she's looking for in your eyes.

There's a sudden tap on the window and you both see Jack waving for you to come inside. She had jumped away from you at the disturbance but now she looks up at you and half-shrugs, her lips pursed together. She doesn't look upset, but she isn't smiling anymore.

You look inside and see that Jack is gone before reaching out to squeeze her hand. She smiles then and squeezes back, and then she intertwines her fingers with yours. It's a familiar gesture, but in an unfamiliar setting, and you marvel at the simplicity of it and how her fingers still fit perfectly in between your own.

Why couldn't it have been like this before?

"We should go inside." She tries to let go of your hand but somehow you can't let her. You know it doesn't make any sense, but feelings you had buried so deep inside yourself that you thought they had disappeared are slowly creeping to the surface, and it makes you want to hold on to her.

"I miss you." You don't mean to say it out loud, and even as you do, you aren't sure it's the truth strictly speaking.

She smiles and frees herself from your grip. "I'm right here."

And then before you know it, she's gone.

End.


End file.
